


Tribute

by nearlywitches



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nearlywitches/pseuds/nearlywitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was accustomed to war, but this was not war. This was cold-blooded killing, murder disguised as entertainment – something so disgusting serialised and glamourized for the pleasure of the privileged and wealthy to enjoy. Throw twenty-four people – no, kids – into an arena, hand them weapons and tell them that the only way to survive is to kill every other person they come into contact with. Who in their right mind thought that was entertainment?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping

They called it The Reaping, and it was televised for the viewing pleasure of Panem.

 

In all honesty, it wasn’t as glamorous as anybody made it out to be. They herded the potential tributes -- terrified looking kids, really -- into small, compact crowds without their parents and made them wait for what seemed like a lifetime to hear who would be this year’s lucky male and female, who would be losing their lives to the Capitol’s straightjacket regime. Yet more innocent lives would be lost so that some upper-class family could have what they termed as entertainment beamed straight into their televisions, all while hiding in the safety of their high-rise apartments.

I was accustomed to war, however, don’t get me wrong. The Rebellion had ensured that every child, teenager and adult across the thirteen -- sorry, twelve -- districts that made up Panem knew the everyday struggles that accompanied battle. So yes, I was accustomed to war, but this was not war. This was cold-blooded killing, murder disguised as entertainment; something so disgusting, serialised and glamorized that was broadcast for the wealthy and the privileged to enjoy. Throw twenty-four people -- no, _kids_ \-- into an arena, hand them weapons and tell them that the only way to survive is to kill every other person they come into contact with. Make them starve, sweat, panic and cry for their parents, just for the television cameras to broadcast their pain to the entire waking world -- entertainment for the rich, a warning of what rebellion costs the poor. Who in their right mind could think that was entertainment?

And warn the poor it did. District Twelve had never had the privilege of being one of the richest places in the world, but before The Rebellion killed the miners, the parents and the soldiers alike, it had been a place full of heart and soul. The younger children still ran and danced and played hide-and-seek between the ramshackle buildings, but they now did so cautiously, scared to put a toe out of line for fear that the Peacekeepers -- Panem’s _elite_ police force -- would put a bullet through their skulls. At six-and-seven years old, death shouldn’t be something you worry about. At that age, any child should be free of any worry, not nervously waiting to see if their name would be pulled from the large glass bowls that sat outside the Justice Building.

Crowds of people had already started to gather outside of the building, ready for the day’s event. On any other day, the town square would have been relatively jovial; people smiling and exchanging pleasantries, small market stalls selling their wares, children chattering away to their parents. However, today was not just any other day. The silence that had fallen throughout the square was absolute, and standing to the side of the stage in my best clothes was like being trapped inside a bubble of nothingness. It got to you, the silence. Over the years, I had trained myself to keep my eyes from connecting with those of the terrified potential tributes, but I was yet to find a way to stop the silence from making me feel like I was drowning.

The second that the solid clack of heels against cement echoed around the square, I knew that the attention of every person in District Twelve would be on the stage. Each year, the Capitol sent one of their own to escort their little packages of entertainment to the rena, and District Twelve had the undeniable honour of having Pomeline Combe as the district escort.

She was sour-faced, even when faced with the rolling Capitol video cameras. A violent clash of neutrals and brights, she was clad head-to-foot in grey and red. Grey hair -- but of _course_ she wasn’t old -- and red lips, grey tights and red shoes, with a grey and red spotted dress to finish off the garish ensemble. In all of my years of dealing with the woman now attempting to force a smile on the stage, I had struggled to find one reason to like her. District Twelve was not her first preference -- after years of escorting people from wealthier districts, she had been dumped in District Twelve, replaced by younger and chirpier escorts. She must have been heartbroken.

****  
  


“Welcome,” she announced, her voice amplified so loudly that I could probably have heard her if I were in the Capitol, “to the fiftieth annual Hunger Games.”

Silence, as always. For the first few years, people had clapped purely out of politeness, but not one person now bothered to applaud the announcement of another bloodbath. Pomeline cleared her throat, scowling at the lack of enthusiasm and continuing the speech that had no doubt been printed out word-for-word on the card held between her taloned fingers.

“As you all know, this year marks half a century since the Games were first introduced. Twenty-five years saw the introduction of the first Quarter Quell and this year, our fiftieth Game, is the second Quarter Quell.”

My full attention was now on Pomeline and the sparkling gold envelope that she had pulled from a pocket. Whatever surprise the Capitol had in store, it couldn’t be good. A Quarter Quell had the sole task of making the Games more difficult than they were every year and with them only happening every twenty-five years, they made an active effort to create twists that ensured as much death and destruction as was possible. I was born a year too late to see the first Quarter Quell in person, but my status as District Twelve’s only victor would ensure that I would see this one.

“In this envelope, I hold this year’s Quarter Quell twist.”

With an astonishing lack of concern painted across her face, Pomeline used a scarlet nail to rip open the top of the envelope. Pursing her lips together in what I assumed was a triumphant smile, she turned back to the microphone, clutching the card that held the twist as if it were made of pure gold.

“The Rebellion caused many casualties and deaths across the region of Panem. For each Capitol citizen that was killed during the Dark Days, two rebels died. As a reminder, this year will see double the amount of tributes being reaped for the games. Each district will offer up two girls and two boys to participate. Twenty-four tributes will enter the arena, and only one will leave to join the existing Victors.”

Silence.

“And, as always, may the odds be ever in your favour.”

 


	2. The Birds

I couldn’t remember hearing as much noise during a Reaping in my twenty-four short years on the planet.

It had started off with one or two small whispers; a few concerned opinions voiced to neighbours, but before long, the rabble had swollen so much that it was impossible to hear yourself think. The children that had been lined up patently were glancing nervously amongst one another. I knew that the feeling of panic that would have already been coursing through their veins would have increased tenfold with the news. Double the tributes meant double the chance of being picked and in the end, doubled the chance of being killed off during the Games. Double the chance of never reaching your eighteenth birthday. Double the chance of never getting to have a family of your own. It was heartbreaking to watch the realisation slowly spread amongst the children.

Even I had been shocked by the announcement of the Quarter Quell twist. I had expected something similar to the first Quarter Quell -- forcing the public to choose the tributes, rather than picking them through random choice. I had expected that they would choose to force the decision upon the parents or possibly even me. I hadn’t expected them to throw double the amount of children into the arena.

“Silence, please!” Pomeline rapped the wooden lectern she was standing in front of, pursing her lips together in her favourite scowl -- I called it the Pomeline Pout on the occasions in which I was far enough away from her to avoid being given an earful -- and surveying the hysterical District Twelve natives with an unnerving stare. The noise levels dropped once again, but the shocked sobs and hushed whispers could still be heard from the direction of those too old to be reaped. I could only imagine what the parents were going through at that moment, realising that their poor, terrified dears were all herded into crowds that they had twice the chance of being pulled from. It was that fear that had caused my own personal promise to never have children of my own. I refused to bring a child up in a world where they could be forced through the same torture that I had endured. I couldn’t -- no, _wouldn’t_ \-- do it.

“We shall move on, and begin the Reaping,” Pomeline announced, her statement hanging in the air more as a threat than anything -- be quiet, or you’ll be on the stage with your entire world crumbling around your ears. She had the power, no matter how hard she tried to pretend that she didn’t. She was the harbinger of bad news and the destroyer of lives. She knew fine well that she had absolute control over District Twelve and if she even so much as moved, she could turn a bustling room into a silent sanctuary.

One taloned hand plunged into the translucent bowl. Pomeline pulled her fingers through the loose slips of paper -- most were no doubt replicated many times over, placed in for extra food rations -- and whirled them around. All that could be heard throughout the square was the harsh rustling of paper and the occasional scratch of nail against glass. The first name to be pulled from the bowl would be female. It always worked that way. Ladies first -- even when killing off children, the Capitol felt that manners were of paramount importance. Load of bullshit, if you asked me. There was no polite way for someone to tell you that you were going to die. Hell, even if you survive, there’s no polite way to tell you that you’re never going to be the same again, no matter how hard you try.

The scar on my right arm itched uncomfortably against the cotton that covered it. Whenever I thought about the arena, it made itself known. A tiny beacon of bad memories, it popped up every so often just to say ‘ _hey, I’m still here, don’t forget about me just yet_ ’. How I could forget about anything that happened during the course of my own Games was still a mystery that I so desperately wanted to solve, but when memories eventually managed to evade me I could make no qualms about the fact that the itchy little blighter would still be there, refusing to let me forget.

Pomeline had pulled a piece of paper from the bowl. She held it up triumphantly with her carefully manicured fingertips just long enough for the cameras to catch a glimpse of it. That half-folded piece of paper was someone’s death sentence. It almost sickened me to look at it, fluttering so innocently in the cool autumnal breeze.

“Our first tribute is,” Pomeline called, moving closer to the microphone as she unfolded the slip. The silence had become altogether too uncomfortable and I found myself holding my breath, the futile hope that the entire thing would suddenly be called off returning as it did every year. I knew it wasn’t going to happen, but I still held onto a small spark of hope that the Capitol would realise how inhumane the Games were. Too much to ask from a city that waxed almost every single hair from their bodies in a futile attempt to look perfect, however.

“Odette Tavistock.”

There was always that one second, that moment of sudden sadness that occurred when you connected a name to the face for the first time. It was easy to do -- kind of like some sick, twisted game of ‘spot the tribute’. Over the years, I had managed to perfect the art of looking emotionless, but you could spot the face of a new tribute from a mile off. Their entire body seems to drop, almost as if invisible marionette strings had been cut off. Facial features go blank as you desperately try not to cry. Crying shows everybody that you’re weak and if you don’t cry then maybe -- just maybe -- you can muscle your way through to the end of the games. Odette Tavistock was tall and bronzed, and from a distance I could easily spot her facial features arranging themselves into a familiar sight. It was the same face that I had worn a few months after my fourteenth birthday. It was a face that I would wear for the rest of my life.

She walked in large, purposeful strides to the stage. As she walked past, I caught her glancing towards me, even from my position hidden in the corner of the stage. She couldn’t see me, but she knew I was there. I knew exactly what she was thinking, even from the very second that she had heard her own name called.

_Please, God, don’t let me end up like her. Let me die in the Games. Don’t turn me into a sullen mess. Don’t make me watch everybody die year-in, year-out._

Pomeline was growing patient, motioning for Odette to come forward. Long, slim fingers clasped themselves around her tiny arm, pulling her forward. Odette was strikingly pretty beside the enigma of Capitol fashion. She was plan, with high cheekbones and dark hair that fell around her face in dirty ringlets. She could have been a wonderful wife, a mother to a beautiful child. Instead, her fate was sealed within the arena and the Games.

Pomeline was crossing the stage again, plunging her hand once again into the bowl of names to pick another to die. I didn’t know how she could do her job and still sleep at night, but the stout snores that I heard on the journey to the Capitol every year showed that she managed just fine. The thin crack of heels against concrete accompanied her as she crossed once again to the microphone to announce the second victim.

“Maysilee Donner,” she called loudly. The bored expression on Pomeline’s face evidenced her disdain at the lack of care for the first tribute. She wanted to get back to the sensationalism of the Capitol. It almost seemed, for a second, as if she was going to be disappointed again. With the same emotionless mask that Odette had worn, Maysilee stepped out from the crowd. She couldn’t have been any older than fourteen and comparing her tiny stature to that of Odette, I didn’t imagine that she would last that long.

The heartbroken scream that accompanied Maysilee to the stage signified the beginning of the drama that Pomeline craved so desperately. A woman that I could only assume to be Maysilee’s mother had broken free of the ranks, and was wrestling one of the Peacemakers in a futile attempt to get to her daughter. I felt sorry for her. She was risking her own life for nothing. Her daughter would be placed into the Games regardless of what she attempted to do, and with her vehement protesting and cursing now filling up the square as the white-suited men dragged her from sight, I doubted she would be allowed to stay alive long enough to watch her daughter compete.

Maysilee was crying in earnest now, her tears falling like great raindrops as she took her place beside idette. Compared, the two were as different as night and day. Odette looked determined, lips set in a thin line and dark eyes shining wildly in her face. She was tall and proud and strikingly beautiful and everything that the Capitol looked for in a traditional Victor. Maysilee was small, fragile and broken. Her face was hidden from the crowd as she struggled to stem the flow of tears. She, and everybody else going into the arena, would know the fate of her mother and that made her a prime target. After all, what kid wants to live in a world where they were the cause of their mother’s death? As cruel as it sounded, in the eyes of a tribute, it was better to simply put her out of her misery to begin with.

I had already decided which one of the girls I would be rooting for when they were dropped into the arena. The Victor’s Village was empty -- I had been the only District Twelve tribute to ever manage to survive -- and it would be nice to have somebody to talk to, especially another female. It’d sure beat drinking myself into oblivion every night, anyway. I needed some company to satisfy my urge to gossip and laugh about trivial things -- the trivial things that had been taken from me when I was thrown into the arena without any hopes of survival.

**  
**I was just worried that the two boys chosen would overpower them both.


End file.
